Those familiar with Pablo Neruda are probably well versed in his Odes to Common Things. His socks, a tomato, an onion. And yes, it is good to appreciate those things which we all take for granted. It's a gift to be able to appreciate the beauty in every day.
As much as I admire and emulate the practice of seeking beauty everywhere, his Odes to Opposites have always been my favorites.
It makes sense as I find myself very captivated by opposites, by almost contradictory elements found within one thing. This theme presents itself often in the art I am attracted to. I was a huge fan of the 1990s cult TV series, Twin Peaks: a mystery surrounding the murder of the all-American high school prom queen who just happened to hide very dark secrets amongst the Douglas Firs. I am drawn to Charles Bukowski because his gift for turning dirty, impoverished, drunken misadventures into things of beauty delights and inspires me. I love listening to TOOL, a band that mixes heavy, intense music and lyrics with lovely melodies and vocals.
I love seeking beauty in the gutter and finding order within the chaos. I often wonder what makes one man fall to either extreme good or evil while another can maintain balance.
Neruda is an expert at balancing. There are many opposites worthy of his praise, including fall and spring, fire and rain, as well as joy and sorrow. I have chosen to share the odes to time, both the present and the future.
We find ourselves in very busy times indeed. The development of AI, quantum computing, cryptocurrencies, blockchain technology, along with rising global tensions, unwarrented attempts at control, the struggle for human rights and the state of the environment all seem to be culminating. But culminating into what?
It is my belief that we, as a species, find ourselves at a crossroad; it is a good time to think about our choices, our world and where we want to go. What kind of world do we hope to find in twenty years? In a century? We are making these decisions today. I hope we make good ones!
Ode to the present
This
moment
as smooth
as a board,
and fresh,
this hour,
this day
as clean
as an untouched glass
— not a single
spiderweb
from the past:
we touch
the moment
with our fingers,
we cut it
to size,
we direct
its blooming,
it’s living,
it’s alive:
it brings nothing
from yesterday that can’t be redeemed,
nothing from the lost past.
This is our
creation,
it’s growing
this very
instant, kicking up
sand or eating
out of our hand.
Catch it,
don’t let it slip away!
Keep it from vanishing into dreams
or words!
Grab it,
pin it down,
make it
obey!
Make it a road
or a bell,
a machine,
a kiss, a book
or a caress.
Slice into its sweet
scent of wood,
make yourself a chair
from it,
then weave yourself
a seat.
Try it out —
or, better,
try a ladder!
Yes,
a ladder:
rise
out of the moment
step
by step,
feet firmly
planted on the wood
of the moment.
Up
and up
but not too much —
just high enough
to
patch
the holes
in the roof.
Not too far;
you don’t want to reach heaven.
Climb up
to the apples
but not as far as the clouds
(let
them
cruise the sky, drifting
toward the past).
You
are
your own moment,
your own apple:
pluck it
from your apple tree.
Hold it up
in your
hand:
it shines
like a star.
Stroke it,
sink your teeth into it — now off you go
whistling on your way.
Ode to future time
Time, you beckon. Before
you were
perfect space, open prairie.
Today
you are
a thread, a drop,
a slender light
scurrying like a hare toward thickets
of concave night.
But
now
you’re telling me, time, what
you didn’t tell me before.
Go ahead, get going,
give your heart a rest.
Go ahead and sing your song.
I’m still the same, aren’t I? The one
who knows the river
by the way its water flows?
All I know is this: in that very place
my heart has been knocking
at a single
door,
knocking since yesterday, from afar,
since long ago,
since my birth —
that place
where the dark echo
of the singing
sea
answers, and I sing,
an echo
I only
know
by its blind hissing,
by lightning
striking the waves,
by waves’ thick froth in the night.
And so, time,
you’ve sized me up in vain.
In vain have you hurried
to stay a step ahead
of this wanderer.
I spent the entire night
by a single door.
I was alone, and singing.
And now
while your light thins
like a speeding animal
fading into shadow,
only now do you tell me
plainly
what you didn’t show me
but I’ve always known.
Yes to Neruda. Yes to the simple things. Beautiful poems.
And Bukowski’s Bluebird... share that some day. It was a shot to the chest the first time I read it, and for years, I kept it taped above my desk.